Mad Fuckers: Picking The Wrong Fights

Seth’s pissed when he corners Kylie in the hallway—again—and lights into her about picking fights she might not walk away from. She just rolls her eyes, chest puffed out, small tits straining the thin tee. “I can take anybody,” she shoots back, that cocky little smirk doing all the talking. Seth snorts. Kylie doubles down. Next thing, his arm’s around her throat and she’s gasping, not ready, but too stubborn to tap. They trade trash talk while he holds her tight, his forearm pressing into her windpipe. Kylie twists, feels something hard poking her ass. Her laugh comes out hoarse. “Damn, you’re really getting off on this, aren’t you?” Seth doesn’t deny it—just tightens the hold until she’s wriggling harder, breath hitching. The fight flips fast. He spins her, shoves her face-first to the wall, yanks her leggings down. Kylie’s still mouthing off even as two thick fingers slide straight into her cunt, knuckles-deep, proving how wet she already is. She pushes back onto them, daring him to go harder. He does. He fucks those fingers in and out until her legs shake, then replaces them with his cock, driving in rough. Kylie braces, taking every thrust, small tits flattened to the drywall, moaning through clenched teeth. They keep score with every slap of skin, neither one willing to be the first to break. Seth pounds her until she’s dripping down her thighs, and she still swears she can take it. He keeps proving her wrong, over and over, until the only sounds left are her wet cunt swallowing him and the filthy slap of his hips against her ass.